


The Other Alpha

by azriona



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Bonding, Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Sherlock, Omega Verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 17:55:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1162757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes was bonded to an Alpha long before John Watson ever met him.  Shame, really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Other Alpha

**Author's Note:**

  * For [forsciencejohn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/forsciencejohn/gifts).



> My Winterlock fic for [forsciencejohn](http://forsciencejohn.tumblr.com). I’m so used to writing Alpha!Sherlock, this was a bit of a stretch, but a good exercise nonetheless! I hope she likes it.
> 
> Beta credits go to earlgreytea68, who puts up with the weird stuff I write with grace and aplomb. Kudos to arianedevere for her transcripts. I hope she’s caught up on sleep now.

John Watson was a fairly reasonable man, and generally considered himself unflappable. Since moving in with Sherlock Holmes, he’d had a great deal of experience in dealing with surprises – such as being kidnapped and threatened with death not once, but twice in recent memory – and for the most part, he thought he’d conducted himself very well. 

Waking up to find Sherlock Holmes wrapped in a sheet and wandering the flat wasn’t something he particularly expected. For a lot of reasons, not the least of which was that seeing Sherlock wrapped in a sheet brought to mind the fact that he was in all likelihood naked underneath it – and all that nakedness implied. 

John was a reasonable, modern-day Alpha. He believed in reproductive rights for Betas, birth control and suppressants for Omegas, and the rights of both genders to wear whatever damn provocative clothing they liked without fear of being attacked in dark alleys by pheromone-crazed Alphas. 

All the same, the sight of Sherlock in a sheet…John blinked, took a breath, and went right on into the sitting room, where the client Mrs Hudson had already announced was waiting. 

“Cup of tea?” asked John, as if Sherlock Holmes wandered around in a sheet all the time. 

“Ta,” said the man. He kept glancing back at Sherlock, and John had to admit it was probably disconcerting. 

“Milk and sugar?” 

“Oh, please, look at him,” snorted Sherlock, still stalking about the sitting room, the sheet dragging on the carpet. “Of course milk and sugar. One, though, because he likes to pretend he’s dieting.” 

John sighed heavily in Sherlock’s direction, and went to turn on the kettle. “You _could_ put on clothes.” 

“Ugh,” said Sherlock. 

“Just because you’re bonded, Sherlock—” 

“ _Tedious_ ,” said Sherlock, highly affronted at the reminder, and went back into the sitting room. “All right. Start from the beginning. And _don’t_ be boring.” 

John set the teacups on the tray and spotted the plate of biscuits Mrs Hudson had brought up – cinnamon and sugar, and freshly baked, if the scent was any indication. John put a few on the tray as well, and stuffed one in his mouth before carrying the lot into the sitting room, where the new client was still talking. 

“Six,” said Sherlock, interrupting the flow. 

“Huh?” asked the client. 

John rolled his eyes and resisted the temptation to drop the tea tray on Sherlock’s head. “Really. _Six_.” 

“Could be a five,” said Sherlock, irritable. “You should go investigate.” 

“ _I_ should…” John sighed, and rubbed his face. “Why me?” 

“You could use the fresh air,” said Sherlock. “And I need to dress.” 

John sighed. No amount of cinnamon-flavored biscuits was worth staying in the flat when Sherlock was in a strop. 

* 

Really, Sherlock wasn’t a terrible flatmate. He played violin at all hours, but a violin wasn’t the constant shelling he’d hear in Afghanistan. He tended to leave strange body parts in the fridge, but once John delineated a shelf for feet and a shelf for food, it wasn’t such a bother. And if sometimes he didn’t speak for days on end – well, John liked the quiet. Really, the worst that could be said for Sherlock as a flatmate was that when he showered, he left the lavatory absolutely soaking wet. 

Any lingering doubts John might have had stemmed from the sitcom worthiness of an Alpha and Omega rooming together. There were shelves full of Hollywood comedies about those types of living arrangements. Shakespeare had written a play or two. Boones and Mill had a dozen books on the subject if they had one. And then there was the porn. 

John was very well acquainted with the porn. On account of being a typical Alpha, of course. 

But Sherlock wasn’t a typical Omega. For one thing, he was bonded, but didn’t live with his Alpha. John didn’t even know who Sherlock’s Alpha was; they’d never discussed it, beyond Sherlock’s initial reassurance when they’d first moved in together that it wasn’t a problem. 

“Haven’t seen my Alpha for years,” said Sherlock. “And it wouldn’t matter anyway; I do as I like.” 

That was true enough, John supposed. But he’d never met an Omega who seemed so uninterested in hearth and home and heats. Sherlock didn’t even _have_ heats, though that made some degree of sense; most bonded Omegas did stop experiencing estrus when their Alphas were on extended journeys or otherwise separated. The Army was rife with Alphas whose Omegas went years without a heat, due to deployment. Sometimes, John thought that Sherlock might have bonded at an early age, and then kicked the Alpha out of his life, just to ensure that he wouldn’t be plagued with estrus again. 

It would have been a very Sherlockian thing to do, after all. If the body was transport, estrus would have been a full-scale system malfunction. 

No matter the circumstances of Sherlock’s bonding, most of the Yard seemed to think Sherlock was a Beta, and considering the man lived like one, it wasn’t that hard of a sell. After all, he didn’t have heats, he didn’t have an Alpha, and he didn’t smell like anything but soap and shampoo. 

Truth was, most of the time, John forgot that Sherlock was an Omega at all. 

Remembering probably would have helped. 

* 

John was still giggling about the ashtray as Sherlock went frantically through his closet, tossing jackets and hats and boots and shirts in every direction. John ignored him, and set the ashtray down on the table, and then after thinking for a moment, put it up on the mantel where they’d still be able to see it, but it wouldn’t attract attention. 

John was munching on another one of Mrs Hudson’s biscuits when Sherlock finally reappeared. He was flushed and his eyes were bright, but he was dressed and clearly ready to go – the scarf was already being wound around his neck, hiding the years-old faded bond-bite from view. Most Omegas showed the bite proudly and dressed accordingly; there was a sizable minority who didn’t care one way or the other if people saw it, and the small glimpses were considered to be more provocative and titillating than if they’d been on full display. 

John hadn’t met many Omegas who hid their bond bites so thoroughly as Sherlock Holmes did his. 

“Come along, John,” said Sherlock, and John rolled his eyes. 

“Oh, you’re ready now. Have a plan, do you?” 

“No,” said Sherlock, shrugging on the Belstaff. 

The entire ride to Belgravia, Sherlock couldn’t keep still. His hands clenched and unclenched; his knee jiggled up and down. He looked stoically out the window one moment, and then his gaze whipped back around to John the next, as if he wanted to ask something. He pulled on his scarf and shifted in his seat, and every move for some reason made John want to hold him down and possibly sit on him, just to keep him still. He was about to threaten it when Sherlock leaned forward and told the cabbie to stop, they’d walk from there, and then they were both on the pavement, Sherlock walking briskly with long strides, and John struggling to catch up. 

“ _Would_ you slow down,” John scolded. “We’re not all made of legs, you know.” 

“Punch me in the face,” said Sherlock, turning to John, and John had never been more grateful to hear anything in his entire life. 

“ _Punch_ you?” 

“Yes, didn’t you hear me?” 

“I always hear you asking me to punch you, but usually it’s just subtext.” 

Sherlock sighed. “Don’t go Alpha on me now, John – hit me!” 

“That’s got nothing to do with it!” 

“I admit it’d be a little tricky, since you’re shorter, but here, I’ll crouch down.” 

“Look,” said John, gritting his teeth impatiently, “I’m not punching you.” 

“Is it because I’m an Omega? Because I can take it.” 

“It’s got nothing to do with that.” 

“John,” groaned Sherlock. 

“No!” 

“Oh for—” 

John expected a punch. He didn’t expect a kiss. 

It was worse than a punch, in some ways - a punch would have had a clear beginning and end, and John would have known exactly how to react. The kiss…that was something else, because for all that John didn’t expect it, it came at him in slow motion, Sherlock’s hands on John’s shoulders, pulling him in. Sherlock’s face in the moments before he descended, mouth open and eyes wide with what might have been fearful desire. 

Which made no sense whatsoever. 

And the odd feeling under John’s skin, the way his blood started pumping faster through his veins, the way Sherlock’s hands felt impossibly warm despite the layers of clothing between them. The odd fog that crept up around John’s thoughts, soothing him while at the same time swirling with budding excitement and anticipation. 

(His body seemed to remember that Sherlock was an Omega, even if his brain did not.) 

It was a rough kiss to begin with, more force than finesse. John was light-headed and fuzzy before Sherlock even managed to wrench his mouth open, to slide his tongue inside, run it along John’s teeth and give a soft, sensual suck on his tongue. So perhaps it might have been excused that John gave in to the kiss, to the numbing influence of his brain, and let his eyes close. He reached up not to push the other man away, but to wrap his fingers around the back of Sherlock’s neck, to keep him close. 

The touch of skin, fingers to nape of neck, seemed to be enough to turn the kiss from frantic, pulsing, discombobulated pressure to something softer, more careful and cautious, but still just as demanding. Sherlock held tightly to John’s shoulders, his fingers digging into John’s skin, in a way that was almost painful, but John concentrated on Sherlock’s mouth. He let Sherlock’s tongue and lips set the quick pace, the pressurized licking and sucking and tasting. Sherlock didn’t seem to want to let up for a moment, didn’t want to let John take control of the kiss; for an Omega, he was desperately greedy. 

John had kissed Omegas before. It would be wrong to say they were all submissive, whimpering little wisps in the bedroom. But none of them were quite as controlling as Sherlock. 

It was Sherlock’s groan that broke him out of his reverie. “John,” whispered Sherlock. He sounded so utterly lost and debauched that John pulled back to stare at him, having almost forgotten who he was kissing. Sherlock’s lips were swollen and pink, his skin flushed, his eyes bright, and John wanted only to dive right back in, to keep kissing him. Every inch of his skin longed to press next to Sherlock’s; every thrum of his heart edged him closer. 

“You kiss like a Beta,” whispered Sherlock. 

John hit Sherlock squarely on the cheek, which made his knuckles sting from sudden impact. “Oh, ow, ow, ow, ow…” 

“Excellent,” said Sherlock, pleased and already sounding a little bit stuffed up from the increased blood flow to his nose. “That should do it.” 

“ _?!”_

Sherlock stood up, touching his nose, seemingly unaffected by the kiss, if not the punch to his cheek. John, on the other hand, was still breathing heavily, his heart still thumping away, and his jeans were already feeling somewhat too snug. He could still feel Sherlock’s skin under his fingers, the way the curls felt when he closed his hands around Sherlock’s head. And even through the fog that still surrounded his brain, he thought he could still smell Mrs Hudson’s cinnamon cookies on Sherlock’s coat. 

Sherlock was walking steadily down the street, and if he was a little crooked, that could be attributed to disorientation from being hit, not kissed. “Come along, John!” 

That was the problem with sharing a flat with Sherlock Holmes – always watching him leave. Most of the time, John was glad that Sherlock was bonded, had always been bonded, because it meant that he didn’t have to worry about the entire Alpha/Omega thing. He could just be Sherlock’s friend, and over time, John had realized that being Sherlock’s _friend_ was infinitely better than possibly ruining whatever they had because they couldn’t be more. 

And then there were times, like just then, sitting on the cold pavement and watching Sherlock walk away slightly crooked, that part of John wanted to curse whatever idiot Alpha it was who’d bonded and left him. 

The rest of him cursed himself for not getting there first. 

* 

The only good thing about Sherlock’s plan was that immediately upon entering Irene Adler’s house, his job was to ensure that the house was more or less empty, get a general idea of layout, locate the fire alarms, and persuade whoever answered the door to leave them be for a bit. 

And find some kind of washcloth for Sherlock’s face, lest it start swelling. 

Which was all good, because it meant that John could spend a little time apart from Sherlock, allowing him to tamp down the rush of hormones he’d felt in the alleyway. It took a surprising amount of effort, considering; after all, it’d only been a completely pointless kiss and a completely satisfactory punch. Adrenaline wasn’t surprising, but the randy way John was feeling _was_. It wasn’t as though John was _attracted_ to Sherlock. But the kiss and the punch were so entwined in his mind that John wasn’t entirely sure that he wasn’t thrilled by the former more than the latter. It had, after all, been long enough since he’d done either. 

Punching Sherlock – well, that had just been frustration rising to the surface. Bloody Omega, walking around half the morning in a sheet, knowing full well that John couldn’t do a damn thing about it. 

Kissing Sherlock…that was something else entirely. Brilliant, spine-tingling, bloody fantastic, utterly pointless. But Sherlock had done it solely to get under John’s skin, to get him so riled up that John would have no choice but to lash out at him. To get the bloody punch he’d needed to get into Irene Adler’s house. 

And John – John had fallen for it like a ton of bricks. Like the sex-crazed Alpha he never thought he really was. 

Bloody Omega. 

John switched the water off, and took the bowl of water and the towel out of the kitchen. The assistant – Kate, she’d said her name was – had gone off somewhere after showing him the way, and the house was fairly quiet, save for the sound of voices from the front room. Large, open, airy. John glanced around, saw the smoke detectors, and gave a quick nod. That was one thing done. And he’d been long enough. Time to find Sherlock. 

John went in. Show time. 

“Right, this should do it,” he said briskly, and glanced up to see a naked Irene Adler standing far too close to Sherlock for comfort, his dog’s collar in her teeth. 

Sherlock sat on the chair, fingers gripping the armrest. His face was utterly passive – if one ignored the widening of the eyes, and the strange way his teeth were clenched together. It almost looked as if he were so nervous he might actually bolt. 

Which didn’t make _any_ sense. Irene Adler might be a dominatrix; she might even be an Alpha, as Mycroft had indicated back at the palace. But even she ought to have been able to tell that Sherlock was as good as sexless, if not an actual bonded Omega. Surely she wasn’t crass enough to attempt a seduction of someone’s bonded mate. 

Even if that someone was extremely absent, and had in fact never been met or mentioned or…. 

No. Not possible. _No_. 

“I’ve missed something, haven’t I?” said John, and Irene Adler pulled the collar out of her teeth and smiled in a rather frightening way. 

“I should think so,” said Irene, her lips smiling but her eyes entirely predatory. “Please, sit down. I can call for tea, if you’d like.” 

“Had some,” said Sherlock, his voice high and tight. He hadn’t let go of the armrests; it looked to John as if he were practically lifting himself off the chair, for all that he was preternaturally still. Too still. Far too still, considering the manic gyrations he’d been doing all morning. 

“Oh, I know.” Irene sat down gracefully, crossing her legs and arms so that all the pertinent bits were covered, and John gave her another glance. She hadn’t taken her eyes off Sherlock that he could tell, and the smile that hovered around her lips was nearly possessive. As if she were just waiting for Sherlock to melt into pieces on her chair. 

“I did, too,” interjected John, not liking the way Irene looked at Sherlock in the slightest. Definitely not liking the way that Sherlock looked at Irene – not with interest, not even with fear, but with…trepidation. 

Neither of them paid him any heed. In fact, neither of them seemed to notice him much at all. It was a bit annoying. 

No, more than a bit. It was a _lot_. And more than annoying. It was… _aggravating_. John could already feel his blood pressure rising just a bit, the way Irene was leaning in toward Sherlock, her voice soft and seductive. And the way Sherlock was straining _not_ to lean into her…but doing it anyway. 

And talking about the dead hiker, of all things… 

“Ah,” said Sherlock. “So they _are_ in this room. John. John. _John_.” 

It took John a moment. “Hmm?” 

“The _door_ , John.” Sherlock’s gaze was strangely intense, almost pleading. John had to shake off whatever was crawling under his skin – not an easy task – and remember what it was they’d discussed out on the street. 

Right. Right. Leave the room. Leave the room _now_. Leave Sherlock and Irene alone in the room. 

Fuck. 

_No, not fuck, wrong terminology, scratch that._

“Right,” said John. He saw a momentary look of interest on Irene’s face, and the way she glanced at Sherlock then…John’s blood nearly boiled under his skin, and not wanting to go in the slightest, he left the room. 

The air in the hallway was cooler, somehow. Fresh and clean and it only took a few deep breaths for John’s head to clear a bit. But the memory of Irene leaning in toward Sherlock, that predatory look in her eye – and Sherlock, stock still and straining on the chair… 

John grabbed the nearest magazine and pulled out the matches. The sooner he did this, the sooner he could get back in there, the sooner he could interrupt whatever ridiculous farce was going on between them. 

Yes. Sooner. That was definitely better. Because every moment that Sherlock was alone with Irene, John could hear the ticking of a clock in the back of his head, counting it out, drawing it out, and the only thing John wanted to do was to get back in there and…and… 

Okay, John didn’t know _what_ , but he was pretty sure he’d figure it out. Just as long as Sherlock wasn’t alone with Irene, because it was very clear to John that Sherlock didn’t want to _be_ alone with Irene. Just as much as Irene seemed to want to be alone with Sherlock. 

And if _that_ wasn’t worrisome… 

When the alarm went off, it was almost a relief. 

It was less of a relief when the American gunmen came in and shot the alarm silent. 

“Thank you,” said John, because what else did one say to American gunmen who didn’t look particularly pleased to see you? 

“Back inside, Dr Watson,” said one of the gunman, and John obeyed. 

The air in the room was thicker than before, and growing thicker by the minute. It practically smacked John in the face when he stepped in, and the gunman behind him barely had to shove him down to his knees, because John might have fallen very voluntarily without his assistance. 

Or not, considering. Irene was covered up in Sherlock’s coat, and somehow seeing _that_ was almost worse than when she’d been naked. Irene, wrapped in Sherlock’s coat…wrapped in Sherlock’s scent…Sherlock’s scent…oh God. 

_Oh God._

Sherlock’s scent. It was Sherlock’s scent in the air. It was Sherlock’s scent fogging his brain. _It was Sherlock’s scent, cinnamon and cloves and sugar_ , and the room was too warm and there was a gun at the back of his head and Sherlock protesting and oh God, Sherlock was going into heat and Irene was sitting there cool as a cucumber half naked and…. 

John closed his eyes. Sherlock and Irene. Maybe the gunman would just shoot him and be done with it. 

* 

He wasn’t shot. He was never entirely sure how that didn’t happen, but he wasn’t shot, and when Sherlock told him to search the rest of the house, he went, almost gladly, because the last thing he wanted to do was watch Irene and Sherlock together. 

Because Irene was there, and Sherlock was going into heat, and all John could remember was the feel of Sherlock’s skin under his fingers, the taste of his mouth when they kissed. The way Sherlock had looked at him in the moments before John had punched him, his eyes wide and bright and _wanting_. 

But none of that was John, was it? No. It was Sherlock, unknowingly reacting to the return of his Alpha. 

The return of Irene Adler. 

* 

_It’s warm, too warm, far too warm. The only good thing about standing up is not sitting down, but standing up isn’t any better because legs keep shaking, and concentrating on anything becomes trickier by the moment._

_Breathing is easier outside. Fresh air, away from the strange build-up of hormones in Irene Adler’s house. Thinking is clearer, try to figure out what is happening. Shoot the gun into the air, someone will report it. Can’t worry about that now, why is it so hot…?_

“What the hell, Sherlock!” shouted John. 

_It’s faster this way. Faster seems to be the key. Anything to end whatever is happening in that house, whatever is happening to this ridiculous excuse of a body. Get home, crawl into bed, strip naked, stand under a cool spray of water._

_John stands too close. Send him away, send him away. Breathing is easier when John isn’t near. Breathing is harder when Irene Adler stares, sidles up close with that predatory look in her eyes._

_Reaches out to touch my hair._

“You don’t even know, do you?” said Irene softly. “You smell so good…” 

“What…what did you do to me?” 

_The floor is good, the floor is comfortable. Lay down, spread my legs, so hot…_

“Give it to me,” said Irene Adler. “Give it to me.” 

_No no no no. Can’t give it to Irene, it’s not hers. Not hers. Not hers._

“Give it to me!” 

_Yes, all right, anything, anything, just help, burning burning. Need you, need someone, need John, need something, help help help…_

“Ah, there it is, thank you.” 

_But I’m not naked yet, you’re not in me yet, you’re not John, where is John, what is happening to me…_

“Jesus! What are you doing!” 

_John. John John John John John._

“Ah, there you are, Dr Watson. Sorry to leave him in such a state, but I really must fly.” 

“You…Sherlock? _Sherlock_. Christ, he’s going into heat – you can’t just leave him!” 

“And what do you expect me to do?” 

“I’m not his Alpha!” 

“Isn’t that funny? Neither am I. And look at us both.” 

“John,” gasped Sherlock, trying to sit up. 

_Shouting and heat and the thundering footsteps of people running up the stairs and John’s hands on my arms and John’s hands on my neck and John’s breath on my face and John and John and John John John John’s voice John…_

“Oh, Christ, fuck fuck fuck…” 

And then there was nothing. 

* 

Irene wasn’t Sherlock’s Alpha. 

John’s head was swirling; between the pheromones and the adrenaline and the worry over Sherlock’s prone figure on the floor, he didn’t know where to look. Certainly not at Irene Adler, now disappearing out the window, wrapped in Sherlock’s coat and a smile. Definitely not at Sherlock himself, flushed and breathing so heavily that he might have been expanding and contracting in turn. 

_Irene wasn’t Sherlock’s Alpha._

But Sherlock was going into heat – there wasn’t any doubt about it. All John had to do was rest his hand on Sherlock’s arm to feel that his temperature was rising just a bit, that his skin was flushed and slightly damp – and the scent of him. Cinnamon brown sugar dark honey delicious – John wanted to bury himself in that scent. 

The pounding of feet on the stairs, Lestrade’s familiar voice shouting ahead. 

“In here!” John shouted. 

If Sherlock was going into heat…and Irene wasn’t his Alpha…who was? 

* 

_“I’ve got it,” says Irene, and Sherlock stares out into the field, barely recognizable as the field where John had been Skyping him that morning. “No, no, don’t get up. The car’s about to backfire, and the hiker, he’s in the field, staring up into the sky. Not bird-watching, though, no – he’s got his eye on something else. The car backfires—”_

_A bang, rather like a door slamming shut, and Sherlock, now standing in the field, turns to look at it._

_“Eyes here, love,” says Irene, and Sherlock turns to look at her again. “Don’t make the same mistake as our hiker, now. Because he turned to look at the bang, too, didn’t he, and took his eyes off the flying object. And by the time the driver’s out of the car to look, what killed your hiker already washed downstream.”_

_Sherlock’s mouth opens, dry, for all that he feels sticky-sweat-slick. “My hiker?”_

_“Of course your hiker, love,” says Irene, stepping up close. He can smell her now, the cologne and freshly-crushed basil, mint and bright pepper. “Haven’t you figured it out yet? What’s happening to you?”_

_Sherlock strains, but he can’t think straight. He’s so hot; his clothes are too tight, too constricting, clinging to his skin like damp flannel. He’s hot and empty and aching and…_

_“I’m in heat.”_

_“An accomplished sportsman recently returned from foreign travel,” whispers Irene-not-Irene, ginger-blond and blue-eyed, kind smile and adventurous eyes, lines along his mouth from laughing. Shifting back and forth between the two faces, both barely known but recognizable. “Your hiker, Sherlock. He came home, didn’t he? And now your bond—”_

_His Alpha stands in Irene’s place, eyes impossibly sad, blood running down his cheek like tears. “I’m sorry, love.”_

_Broken._

_There’s a place just under Sherlock’ s heart that he hasn’t considered in years. It’s wound up tight and secure, patiently occupying its space, waiting for the moment when its twin comes near enough to react. He’s always heard other people talk about their bonds; the warmth and love and tugging they’d feel, connecting them to another person, how they can tell their bonded’s joys and sorrows just by the way their bonds felt. Sherlock’s never felt anything from his, but that quiet patience, the waiting, the absence of anything._

_Now, all he feels is the absence of the bond itself. He’s grown accustomed to that hard little knot under his heart, so much so that he’s taken its existence for granted, but now it’s empty, as if it was removed when Sherlock wasn’t looking._

_“I…” gasps Sherlock. “I….”_

_There’s a sheet over him, wrapping around his limbs, wrapping around him tightly, wrapping him so tightly he’ll never break free. He’s hot and wet and empty and aching and he’s…._

Awake. 

Sherlock woke with a pain in his chest, his head fogged and hurting. It took too long to realize he was back in Baker Street, in his own room, his own bed, the sheet wrapped tightly around his legs. The sheets were rough against his naked, flushed, sensitive skin, and the scent lingering in the room, a familiar scent, rose petals and nail varnish, was almost sickening. 

“Hush now,” said Irene, bending low over him, and the scent flooded Sherlock’s nostrils until he couldn’t even think. He pushed back into the pillows, screwing his eyes shut, and held his breath, because otherwise he might spread his legs for her. For _her_ , and not the dark-pepper-brandy smell he could only barely remember. 

“Such a delicious crumpet you are,” whispered Irene. “I could take such good care of you. I could have you bent over this bed begging for mercy.” 

“ _No_ ,” groaned Sherlock, eyes still closed. He could smell her. He could _feel_ her, leaning over him, and it took every ounce of self-control to keep his body from rising up to meet her. 

“Twice,” promised Irene. 

A sharp fingernail on his cheek; Sherlock opened his eyes to stare at her. “Wouldn’t you like that, darling? 

He swallowed down the _yes yes please yes_ that threatened to bubble up. It took every ounce of humanity left in him to answer. “Not you. _I don’t want you_.” 

“Hush now,” repeated Irene, and he almost heard the disappointment under the brave reassurance. Her smile was knowing, a bit sad, and Sherlock’s heart pounded. “I’m only returning your coat.” 

Her touch was electric, all the same, and he inhaled sharply as his eyes rolled into the back of his head. 

_The field is a vibrant green that doesn’t exist in reality, and he watches, over and over again, as the young man with the ginger-blond hair is struck from behind over and over and over._

_Your hiker…recently returned…don’t make the same mistake…_

When he opened his eyes again, the field was gone. The shades on the windows were drawn and afternoon light filtered in. His heart pounded; the blood coursed through his veins, under his skin, around his muscles and bones and liver. Hot and cold, damp and dry, and the strange, empty feeling deep in his chest and his guts while at the same time, he might burst. He needed something. He knew exactly what he needed, and that he needs at all made his breath stutter. He kicked at the sheet around his legs, gripped the mattress to try to ground himself. It didn’t work. Nothing worked. Afraid, alone, and for the first time in a decade, his body was betraying him. 

Sherlock lifted his head, aching and empty, and the room swirled as if he was dizzy. He might have been dizzy, but there was only one thought in his head, and he tried to shout it through dry lips. 

“John!” 

A sound on the other side of the door; movement. Someone slumped next to it, someone sitting against it. 

_John._

“John!” 

John’s voice was muffled from the other side of the door. “No. I can’t…Sherlock, you’re in heat. I can’t come in. This isn’t what you want.” 

_But it is. It is, it is, it’s what I’ve wanted from the start, and couldn’t have, because once, a long time ago, I was an idiot…_

“The door’s locked,” said John, as if this was meant to be comforting. “You’re safe. I won’t let anyone in.” 

“Where is she?” 

John didn’t say anything for a moment, and then a let out hollow sort of laugh. “Your _Alpha_ , you mean.” 

“No!” groaned Sherlock, and he kicked so hard, twisting in fury, that he fell right off the bed with a thump. 

“Sherlock?” John’s voice was worried. “Are you all right?” 

Sherlock crept across the floor to the door; the light under the door was mostly blocked by John, and Sherlock pressed his face to it, took a deep breath. Dust in the carpet, polish on the floor, the strong scent of brandy-chocolate-John, and Sherlock wanted to whimper with it, drink it down, and hated himself for it. 

“John. Help me, _please_. You’re an Alpha. You can make this go away.” 

John’s voice was heavy, his breathing hard. “But I’m not yours, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock rocked back on his hands and knees, pressed his face to the floor and exhaled a deep moan with all the air in his lungs. It was easier, crouched like this on the floor. Not cooler, exactly, but so similar to the classic missionary bonding pose that his body was fooled into thinking relief was coming. 

Even if relief was on the other side of a locked door, refusing to come though. 

“No. You’re not.” 

“He’s coming, Sherlock, I promise. Or she. They’re in London, have to be if you’re going into heat. They feel the pull, same as you. It won’t be long, and I won’t fight them off, I promise.” 

Sherlock groaned. “Impossible. He’s not coming. No one’s coming, John. He’s dead.” 

“Sherlock, you can’t know that.” 

“It’s _true_.” 

“How can you know that?” demanded John, and Sherlock knew the look on John’s face – set and determined, upset and angry and trying desperately to hold it together. “How can you _possibly_ know that?” 

“The hiker, John.” 

“Don’t change the subject.” 

“Did they tell you his name? They must have.” 

Silence. 

“He always wanted to travel. That was the point – he’d go and travel, see all the things he could see as a bonded Alpha that he wouldn’t have been able to see otherwise. Be safe from accidentally bonding with someone he didn’t know. I’d stay here, and not have to bother with estrus. It was mutually beneficial; we both had our freedom. For twelve years. Fairly decent run, I’d say, until for whatever reason he decided to come back to England with a boomerang.” Sherlock’s laugh was hollow. “What a joke. Victor never said anything about wanting to visit Australia, but I suppose a man changes over the course of twelve years.” 

John’s voice was dry and flat. “Victor.” 

“Victor Trevor, yes. My Alpha.” 

The name was dust on his lips; somehow, saying it aloud brought back the memory of the young man he’d known. The golden boy, the smiling eyes, the joyous and cheerful laughter, so bright against Sherlock’s own sarcastic and standoffish smirk. 

It was quiet on the other side of the door, and then Sherlock heard John exhale, breath echoing against the wood. 

“Bleeding buggering fuck.” 

Sherlock sighed in a rush, closed his eyes again, remembered Victor saying goodbye. 

_You said you’d write when you came back to England. Give me warning, a change to get away – or be ready for you._

“I’m right, aren’t I?” 

John’s voice shook. “Yeah. He was. How did…?” 

Sherlock rested his hand on the floor, palm flat, fingers just brushing the bottom of the door. The sweat was breaking out on his forehead again; it was impossible to keep his limbs steady. “I hated my estrus. It was inconvenient. Disruptive. The loss of control – the way _need_ and _desire_ were suddenly more important than caution and reason. And without any of the benefits of clarity of thought – just the mess to clean up afterwards, emotional and otherwise. I would have done anything to rid myself of them.” 

“So you bonded yourself to a stranger?” 

“He wasn’t a stranger. We met at uni. He was older. He was brilliant. I thought he was wasting himself on his course of studies. And Victor…he didn’t want to bond. It made sense, to share my estrus with him.” 

“A friend, then.” 

“I didn’t have friends.” 

“Go on,” prodded John. Sherlock slid his hand toward the crack under the door; his fingers were skinny enough to wedge under just enough. Just a little closer to John. It wasn’t nearly close enough. 

“It was my idea. He was complaining about how he couldn’t get into this monastery in Tibet unless he were bonded. And…I offered. He’d be bonded, could see the things he wanted to see – and if he was away, I wouldn’t go into heat, I’d be free of all that nonsense. It made sense.” 

John didn’t answer, but Sherlock could see the shadows shift under the door. The long dark shadow: John’s body. The smaller one, just opposite Sherlock’s hand: John’s hand, pressed against the floor. 

“We bonded. He left a week later. It was the last heat I had. Until now.” 

“Did you love him?” 

The image of Victor dissipated almost immediately. “What? No. I don’t see how that matters.” 

The shadows didn’t shift, but there was movement in the air – and then the lightest touch on the tips of Sherlock’s fingers. John’s hand, creeping under the door. 

“You trusted him enough to bond with him. That’s a pretty big level of trust, Sherlock. He could have stayed with you, not left at all.” 

“It didn’t mean anything,” insisted Sherlock. “It was convenient. We wrote a few letters, for a few months, and then…” 

His voice trailed off. John’s fingers pressed in a little more. Sherlock didn’t move his hand. He didn’t dare. 

But with the press of John’s fingers, there was another wave of warmth, the blood under his skin a rippling wave of pressure. Sherlock gasped with it, pressed his forehead into the door. His entire body wanted to press into the door, or better still, under the door, straight into John’s fingers and up his arm, into his chest where he could feel John’s heart beating in time with his pulsing blood. Sherlock could smell John, the richness of him, and worse, Sherlock could smell himself, the deep honey-yeast scent of his own sex as his thighs grew slick with lubrication. 

This was it, then. This was everything Sherlock had tried to forget. His very life flowing out of him, down down down, a vortex sucking every drop of blood and sweat and fluid out between his legs. And it would keep going, long after he ought to have been left a dry husk of a man on the floor. Already Sherlock felt like he was swimming in all the fluids that by all rights needed to remain inside. 

Stop the flow – something to block its passage. The proverbial Dutch boy, with his finger in the dam, holding the waters back before they destroy everything. 

John. He needed John. 

“John…please. Help me.” Begging now; he hated it, hated himself, hated what Victor’s death brought him to doing, hated the locked door, hated John for being on the other side of it; hated himself for never telling John the truth, for never telling John that…in that moment, he hated John, nearly as much as he wanted him. 

“No.” But John didn’t sound so strong now. Maybe he could smell it, too. 

“There’s no one else. I need you.” 

John laughed. “But you don’t want me. You think I’m so gone that I don’t know the difference?” 

“Victor didn’t want me, but he still—” 

The door shook with the force of John’s body; Sherlock backed away from the vibrations before they rattled him apart. He was so on edge, it might happen. “I’m. Not. Victor.” 

The door shook again. John’s fist? His open palm? His entire body, thrown against it? Sherlock was too far gone to deduce, and that was the worst of it, really. He wrapped his arms around himself, dug his fingers into the flesh on the back of his arms. The pain was good, almost – but not nearly enough to distract him from the desire. 

“No, you’re not Victor,” he whispered, choking it out. “You’re my _friend_. He never was. He was convenient. You – you’re not the least bit convenient.” 

John laughed again. “I’m the only Alpha on offer. How is that not convenient?” 

“You’re on the other side of a bloody locked door. And Irene Adler was in this room half an hour ago.” 

Silence, and then a soft scraping sound, as if John slid down the door. “She was here. In your room.” 

“I told you.” 

“She…that _woman_ …was in _your_ room.” 

John’s voice…angry and possessive and dark and it was delicious. Sherlock sat up a little, the strange way that voice made his body uncurl, and wanted to reach out to John and _touch_ him. Just to see if the hope in his chest had any merit at all. 

“Yes.” So careful. He needed to be so careful now, not to frighten John away. Not to send John away in a fit of jealousy. 

“Of course she was. Of course.” A bang, softer, deeper. John’s head against the door; it was still against the door, if the sound of the knock was any indication. 

“I don’t want Irene Adler. I want _you_ , John.” 

Sherlock knew it was the wrong thing to say the moment he said it, and he wanted to scream in frustration when John didn’t answer. 

“Sherlock…” Kind…strained... John, telling him that he won’t come through the door. 

Sherlock pressed his face into the floor and growled in frustration. “I know what you’re going to say, and it’s all so bloody tedious. She’s attractive enough, but she’s vicious, and she’s intelligent enough but she’s cold. I don’t want attractive and vicious and intelligent and cold; I want _you_. I sent the bloody woman away because everything she said and did, all I thought was that she wasn’t _you_ , and I can’t bloody think of anything else. I can barely think at all if it’s not to do with you! The pheromones and your smell and you smell so bloody _good_ , and I hate this, I hate that all I want is _you_.” 

“No,” said John, breathing hard, his voice determined. “It’s the pheromones talking, that’s all. Talking about Irene being in the room with you, when you smell like you do. She probably touched you, didn’t she? Looked at you and wanted to touch her fingers all over your body, in your mouth and in your…no. _No_. You’re playing on my Alpha nature, you’re trying to make me jealous enough to come in there and defend what isn’t my territory.” 

“I’m trying to tell you, it _is_ …” 

“It. Won’t. _Work_. I’m _not_ Victor, Sherlock. I’m not going to bond you just because it makes your life easier!” 

“If I’d wanted an easy bonding, don’t you think I would have let the woman at me?” 

“I don’t know what you want, Sherlock! This is all just a game to you!” 

“It’s not a game, John. She was here!” 

“No. I don’t believe you.” 

“John. My coat is in this room.” 

“It can’t be. She was wearing it when she fell out the window.” 

“Come in here if you don’t believe me!” 

“ _You’re in heat, Sherlock_!” howled John. “Don’t you get it? You’re in _heat_ , and I’m an Alpha, and we’ve been able to live together for this long only because you have a bloody Alpha somewhere else. I never had to smell you, or look at you with your face flushed with wanting, or have you crawling all over me for a kiss. You probably didn’t even _think_ about kissing me before, did you? And now I can’t get it out of my head, and the whole bloody flat smells like you, and _I_ smell like you, and if I open this door, that’s going to be _it_ , Sherlock. I’ll be on you and fucking you and I know that’s not what you want so would you just bloody _shut up_ about the stupid coat, because I don’t _care_ about the stupid coat.” 

“This isn’t about the coat!” shouted Sherlock, and he banged his fists on the door. “He _left_ me, John. Victor bonded me and he left me and he came back to England and didn’t so much as call to tell me. And the only reason I’m in heat now is because he’s _dead_ , and I. Want. You. _You’re_ the reason my body is doing this to me and you’re the reason the woman left the coat and went away because it’s _you_ , John. It’s always been you, but there wasn’t anything I could do about it because twelve years ago I didn’t think I’d ever find you so I did a bloody stupid thing and bonded to ensure that I wouldn’t be reminded that there was something in the world I wasn’t ever going to have. Well done me, look how that turned out, John. You’re on the other side of a door you won’t open because you think you’re being noble. I’ve wanted you from the start, and if you’re too bloody stupid to see that, then maybe it’s better that you’re on the wrong side of a locked door. And maybe it _is_ the pheromones telling me that I need you so much, that you’re the only Alpha in this entire world that I’d want to be with so much that I’m willing to put up with this stupid estrus every few months, if it means I get to keep you.” 

He was barely done speaking when the doorknob began to shake, jiggling back and forth with wasted effort to open it. Sherlock stared at it, his chest heaving, his mouth dry. “John…” 

“I can’t open it, you idiotic berk – I locked the bloody door from your side when I shut you in!” 

Sherlock flung himself at the doorknob so quickly that he nearly stumbled trying to twist it open. He couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry, and succeeded in doing a little of both. He managed it after a moment, his hands so slick with sweat that he could barely grip the knob, and then he couldn’t even open the door because he was in the way. 

He shifted backwards as John stumbled in on his hands and knees, and stared up at the coat hanging on the wall. John’s eyes were blood-shot and wide; his hands shook, and to Sherlock, he smelled rich and thick, like long-simmered spices and brandy. 

John was quiet for a moment, staring at the coat hanging on the wall. “She was here.” 

“I didn’t want her,” said Sherlock. “She would have – I didn’t want _her_.” 

John turned his head slowly – so slowly, it made Sherlock ache. “Who do you want?” 

“You,” said Sherlock. 

John let out a shuddering sigh, his eyes wide and dark and focused entirely on Sherlock. He reached out to cup Sherlock’s cheek in his hand, and Sherlock closed his eyes at the contact, shivering at the coolness of John’s skin. He trembled, his entire body shaking with the effort not to lay down on the hard floor and spread himself open for John – because even though every cell was screaming for him to do just that, he knew John wasn’t quite ready for it. 

“You bonded with Victor because he was going to leave.” 

“That’s why I wanted him.” Sherlock swallowed, and rested his hand on top of John’s, to hold it steady as he turned his face into it. John’s skin smelled like hand soap and leather and sweat and nerves. 

“I’m not going to leave,” said John, low. 

“That’s why I want _you_.” 

John’s entire body shook with effort – presumably to keep himself from flat-out ravishing Sherlock on the floor. It would have been endearing, had Sherlock not actually wanted the ravishing. John’s eyes were closed; it was easy for Sherlock to take his shoulders with both hands, pull him down and kiss him, because if he waited another moment – if John opened his eyes and looked at him, flat out on the ground and _wanting_ , he’d come to his senses, he’s shove away out of fear and moral standing and conscience, and Sherlock would lose him. 

Sherlock wasn’t going to lose John. Not now. Not ever, not if he had anything to say about it. And for the first time since he’d realized what was happening to him – he was actually glad for his biology, because it meant that John would be tied to him. Wouldn’t be able to leave – would stay in 221B for good. 

_You bonded with Victor_ , said his brain, ever the killjoy. _And Victor left you. Never thought of you. Came back and didn’t bother to tell you. Probably forgot all about you. Or else hated you so much that he didn’t care._

_Shut up_ , said Sherlock, and opened his lips against John’s. 

John’s fingers tightened around Sherlock’s cheek. He took Sherlock’s open mouth and pushed into him, ran his tongue along Sherlock’s teeth. Sherlock’s breath caught; his fingers twisted in John’s shirt, his heart thudded heavily in his chest. John tasted like tea and brandy – tea for the hours he’d spent outside the bedroom, waiting and worrying and trying desperately to calm the fires that were spurring him on now. Brandy to dull the senses. 

Sherlock didn’t want John’s senses dulled. He reached for John’s shirt, and tried to pull it open, wishing buttons really did pop off fabric as easily in romance novels and bad porn movies. 

John chuckled, low, and pulled off his mouth with a soft pop. He went up on his knees between Sherlock’s legs; his lips were red and shiny with saliva, and his eyes were dark, still focused entirely on Sherlock. 

He looked predatory, in a way that John didn’t normally look. That was all right; Sherlock felt like prey, in a way he didn’t normally like. Sherlock panted, his chest heaving irregularly, and John sat between his legs, looking at him with amusement and lust and something akin to…concern. Caring? Sherlock wasn’t sure. But he seemed content to wait for Sherlock to catch his breath, as if simply being in the room, being so close to Sherlock and what they were about to complete was enough for him to remain content for hours on end. 

With John looking at him like that…Sherlock hated his biology just a little bit less. 

“John,” said Sherlock, trying to sound less desperate than he actually felt. “I find that I am in need of some assistance.” 

“Oh, are you?” asked John, one eyebrow raised. 

“Reassurance, really. That you really do mean to…see this through.” 

“Oh, I intend to,” said John softly, and undid the top two buttons, never taking his eyes off Sherlock. 

“Good. Good.” Sherlock exhaled, feeling the tension ease away. “I can’t promise to be a model Omega to you, John. I’m self-centered and moody and I will never make the tea or remember to buy milk—” 

“Thank God for that, I’d wonder who replaced you with an alien,” said John, and his eyes had the audacity to smile at him. 

“Yes, _thank you_.” 

John chuckled, and leaned over to brush a kiss against Sherlock’s forehead. Sherlock’s skin tingled under it, and something in his blood settled for a moment, luxuriated in the rush of warmth and joy and _contentment_ , and Sherlock sighed with it, relaxing even further. “It’s all right. Nothing’s going to change between us. We’re still going to be us.” 

“I’ll try,” said Sherlock, barely above a whisper, and he swallowed, and tried to speak normally again. “I will try to be the best bondmate of which I am capable.” 

“I’m not going to bond with you tonight, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock went still. “John—” 

John pushed up again, and looked into Sherlock’s eyes. “Not tonight. Not this cycle. You’ve been tied to another man for twelve years, Sherlock. I’m not going to tie you to me so soon.” 

Sherlock drew back, limbs shaking again. “I can have you, but not your bond.” 

John pulled him forward again. “You never listen, you know. I didn’t say you couldn’t have my bond. I said you couldn’t have it _tonight_.” 

John leaned in, and pressed his forehead against Sherlock’s. “I told you, what happens tonight isn’t going to change anything between us. You spent a single heat with Victor, and he was gone for twelve years. But the first day I met you, you cured my limp and I killed a man for you – you don’t think that counts for something more?” 

The kiss was gentle as Sherlock pressed up to him. The roaring sound in his ears, as his blood flow increased, as his body went into hyper drive, was not. Sherlock gripped John’s arms so hard that he would surely leave bruises; his legs parted of their own volition and Sherlock struggled to press them back together. John chuckled into his mouth. The low vibrations were an electric shock through Sherlock’s nervous system. 

“Get up on the bed,” said John. “I’m not going to take you on the floor. My knees would never forgive me.” 

Sherlock chuckled, breaking into a smile, and John grinned back, a little more himself even as he undid another button, revealing the plain white vest underneath. Sherlock scrambled up onto the bed, never turning from John. He felt slick between his legs; there was a damp mark on the floor where he’d been sitting, and the bed was cool and dry in comparison. He watched as John stood up, carefully, as if he was afraid his legs would give out from under him. 

“Naked,” said Sherlock, licking his still impossibly dry lips. 

“That’s the plan,” agreed John, and dropped the rest of his clothes to the floor where he stood. His cock sprung free, large and thick and red, the hair at the base of it a darker blonde than on his head. Almost russet, and not curled, but gently waved, damp with sweat. 

Sherlock licked his lips again and swallowed. 

“All right?” asked John softly. 

“It’s…been a while,” admitted Sherlock, and the tension was in his neck and the small of his back and his stomach, twisting uncomfortably. He couldn’t take his eyes off John’s cock, larger than a cock surely had a right to be. Good Lord, it practically reached down to his knees. Victor hadn’t been that large, had he? 

Oh, Christ. 

“Was Victor—?” began John, and then stopped. “No, sorry. Not my business.” 

“I don’t remember. It was dark. We didn’t really…it was more about the convenience than the experience of it.” 

John laughed. “That’s so entirely you. A bond of convenience.” He quieted. “Is that all I am? Convenient?” 

“John.” Sherlock reached forward, and his breath hitched a little as his skin rubbed against the sheets in a not-entirely unpleasant way. He tightened his fingers around John’s vest to pull him closer. John’s knees hit the edge of the mattress, and John ducked his head, still too high above Sherlock to kiss him, but close enough that, given the way John inhaled and his body shuddered, it was obvious he could smell the pheromones in Sherlock’s hair, on his skin, slowly scenting the air around him. “You were hardly convenient on the other side of a locked door. Victor was…he was kind, and he was interesting, and he was clever, but…apart from his desire to travel…he was _boring_.” 

“And I’m not?” 

The thoughts swirled in Sherlock’s head; the delectable scent of John, muddling his mind and making the world a bit fuzzy. The strangely cool electric feel of John’s skin, tantalizingly out of reach. The way John’s eyes stared at him, pupils large with pheromones and desire. Sherlock felt his insides go molten; he could give another impressive speech, but really he just wanted _John_ , preferably sooner, preferably immediately. 

“You’re better. You’re dangerous. You’re here. And you’re still not on this bed.” 

John chuckled, and leaned down to kiss Sherlock; a quiet kiss, a press of lips to lips, without any insistence or demands. John pulled up from it and pushed Sherlock gently back onto the bed. 

“Scoot over,” he instructed him, and lay next to him, brushing the damp hair back from Sherlock’s brow. “Sherlock…” 

John’s eyes were soft and aching; they looked almost as if he was about to say something regretful, and Sherlock’s heart clenched in his chest. 

He was hot, impossibly hot; if water touched his skin, it would sizzle. But where John rested his hand on Sherlock’s cheek, the fire seemed to die down to a smolder. Sherlock wanted John to touch him _everywhere_. 

“Don’t say anything,” said Sherlock quickly, and pulled John to him, rolling the other man until he was on top of him, pressing him down into the mattress, their legs a tangle, their arms scrambling for support. 

John went still above him; he held himself above Sherlock, his cock brushing up against Sherlock’s hip, hot and heavy. Sherlock’s hips strained up to meet him; his legs spread even further than before, but John held himself steady, a rock even with the pheromones in the air. 

“You’re afraid,” said John. 

“No.” 

“You are. Sherlock, if you’re afraid—” 

It was too final. Sherlock could already feel John beginning to pull away. He gripped John’s arm tightly. “Don’t…you can’t go. Please.” 

John’s gaze was deep and steady, straight into Sherlock’s eyes and mind and heart and soul and stomach. If this is what it felt like, when Sherlock looked at others, deduced them down to their souls…his breath caught, and he stared resolutely up at John, determined not to break under him. If he broke, John would never be convinced to come back. 

“I’m not going to leave you,” said John. “I promise.” 

John lowered himself down, skin to skin, chest to chest, cock nestled next to cock, and kissed Sherlock softly on the side of his mouth as Sherlock closed his eyes, chest heaving. 

“You say that as if you believe it.” 

John pressed his forehead to Sherlock’s. “You don’t.” It wasn’t a question. Sherlock remained silent, and John sighed. “All right.” 

John pulled off him, and the loss of his warmth, pressing Sherlock down, made Sherlock feel emptier and more weightless than ever. His breath caught in his throat. 

_Bloody buggering hell…_

He opened his mouth, unsure whether or not he actually wanted to resort to begging, but John wasn’t done moving; he shifted down on the bed, until he was kneeling in between Sherlock’s legs again, and Sherlock watched as John leaned down to press his lips against the long line of his cock – just lips, and that was enough for Sherlock to inhale sharply, his hands grasping for purchase on the sheets. John glanced up at him, face unreadable (or maybe Sherlock was just too far gone), and lowered again, this time taking the head of Sherlock’s cock into his mouth. 

This time, Sherlock bolted up, his heart pounding, every atom in his body zinging back and forth, bouncing off the inside of his skin. Fireworks in his veins, and when John sucked gently, Sherlock fell back on the bed with a moan. 

“Oh, God…” 

John’s hands were on his hips, holding him steady. Writhing was impossible, so instead, Sherlock moved his arms against the bed, gripping and releasing in turn, as if to pull the entire mattress up and wrap himself in it. The entire world was bright with sensation, he looked at the ceiling, the walls, John’s sandy hair, but did not see. Just the feel of his cock, warm in John’s mouth, John’s hands on his hips, John’s brandy-wine scent beginning to take on a different tone. Cloves and yeast and the comforting scent of freshly-baked bread, and it took a moment for Sherlock to realize that it was _them_ that he smelled. 

“Ohhhhhh.” 

He released the word in a slow exhalation of air, and pressed back into the pillows. 

And then John moved his mouth again, down his cock, over his balls, and licked a long stripe straight down, over Sherlock’s wet and open hole. 

Too much, not enough, all at once. _Now now now_ , his blood sang, but in the back of his mind, the bit that had been watching the proceedings with a cautious and careful gaze, was silent and afraid. 

Sherlock went utterly still, and held his breath, and waited for John to fall on him, to push into him, to fill him up in every way he wanted and didn’t want. Now. Now. Now. 

Instead, he felt John’s lips on his hip, and then on his stomach, and then directly over his heart. 

“I told you,” said John, in between kisses, “I’m not going anywhere.” 

Sherlock stared at John; the way his hair was mussed and slightly damp at the tips, turning dark with sweat. His eyes, pupils so dilated that Sherlock could barely make out the blue irises. 

_He will_ , said the quiet coolness in Sherlock’s brain. 

“You will.” 

John pressed another kiss, this time to Sherlock’s clavicle. “No.” 

“They always leave.” 

And then John was directly above him again, pressing his body into him, his arms wrapped around Sherlock’s back, holding him close. Sherlock thought he could feel John’s heartbeat, pounding a counterpoint to his own. 

And John’s face…quiet, determined, fierce in the way that Alphas looked fierce when protecting their own. Fierce in the way Victor had looked, in the split second before the bite that Sherlock only barely remembered, and then never again, not once. 

Fierce in the way that John must have looked after shooting the cabbie, when Shan was choking the life out of Sherlock in Soo Lin’s flat, when holding Moriarty down and telling Sherlock to run. 

“No,” said John, his voice gruff and stern. A shiver ran down Sherlock’s spine, and it would have been horrible, had the cool chill it brought with it not been so refreshing. Sherlock almost wanted to press John again, just to hear that voice. “Not me. I’m not them.” 

John leaned down, lips heading straight for the base of his neck. 

_Victor, leaning in, the blond hair too long and getting into Sherlock’s eyes. Oh, god, when would it be over, make it fast, make it hurt, make it anything to take me out of this moment._

Panic. Sherlock’s heart beat faster, his breath grew shallow; he wanted to call John’s name but couldn’t make a sound. 

John, face buried in the crook of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock could feel his breath against his skin; the bond bite began to throb, just a bit, but instead of curling in, closing the space, Sherlock stretched out his neck to give John better access. 

The quiet coolness in the back of his mind froze. 

John’s lips touched his skin, so gently, so softly, that Sherlock wasn’t sure that he felt John’s lips and not his breath. But there – that was John’s breath, breezing over the sweat-soaked skin. A gentle kiss, innocent if it weren’t for the fact that they were both heaving with tension and sweat and sex. 

John pulled away, dragging his cheek alongside Sherlock’s, before resting his lips on the edge of Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock could feel the tremble in them, the effort John was making not to bite him then and there, not to take the skin in his teeth and at least worry it a little. 

Sherlock didn’t hesitate; he lifted his hands and rested them on John’s cheeks, and was surprised to find them damp. The tracks left a shiny path down from John’s closed eyes. 

“You can,” said Sherlock. “It’s all right. I’ll ask you to anyway, in a few months.” 

“Then ask me in a few months,” said John, hoarse, “and I will.” 

John kissed him as if it was the only thing stopping him from taking Sherlock then and there. Sherlock didn’t let him go. Even when John began to rock, Sherlock held on tightly, and with a swift twist, John rolled onto his back, bringing Sherlock to lie atop him. 

The cold air on Sherlock’s damp skin tickled. For a moment, Sherlock was light-headed and dizzy, looking down at John, who had let go of Sherlock and was pulling his face down for another breath-taking kiss. 

“Go on,” said John roughly. 

“I don’t…” 

“Better this way,” said John. “I can’t leave if you’re holding me down. And I can’t bond you if you’re not within reach.” 

John wouldn’t stay, if there was even the remote possibility of bonding, and knowing that gave Sherlock a sinking feeling. But the feel of John between his legs, the way his cock strained up to him; John’s fingers entwined with his; the look of unmistakable lust on his face…they were a little more steadying. 

Sherlock took a breath, and shifted above John, brushing their cocks together. The way John gasped, his eyes closing briefly before opening again, darker and more unfocused. His hands tightened around Sherlock’s fingers, moved to rest their hands on Sherlock’s hips. 

“Up,” said John softly, urgently. 

Sherlock pushed against John’s hands, using them to lift himself up. There was a squelching sort of sound as their skin pulled apart; Sherlock’s lubrication, now generously spread out on John’s legs and groin. John’s cock sprang up, but the angle wasn’t quite right. John wriggled his fingers until Sherlock let go, balanced precariously on his knees, and John repositioned his cock, clumsy now with need. 

John’s cock, right at the entrance, so wet and wide that John could slip the tip inside without any effort. Sherlock’s legs shook with effort; he was desperate to sink down, and desperately afraid to try. 

John held his cock steady, and looked up at Sherlock. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. 

Sherlock took a breath, and started to sink down. He felt every inch, every stretch of his skin around John’s prick, and after a moment, felt John’s hand on his hip. 

It seemed an impossibly long time before he hit John’s knot, that last little expanse of skin at the base of John’s cock, and it might as well have been a meter thick for all that Sherlock couldn’t get past it, couldn’t feel John under him, just air, and Sherlock’s legs were going to give out; he was going to fall over and John would slide out and he’d groan and call Sherlock an idiot, and leave. 

Someone whimpered. Sherlock hoped it wasn’t him. 

And then John lifted his hips up to Sherlock; it was enough, combined with Sherlock’s weight, to overcome the barrier, and John’s knot pressed inside. Sherlock could feel the soft pop of his muscles allowing it entrance, rather than hear it, and he let out a gasp in the moment before his legs gave up entirely. He fell forward, guided by John, onto John’s chest, and lay there, trembling, as John hitched up his legs, moving and stretching to keep inside Sherlock despite the shift in position. 

“Hey,” said John, and he ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. They pulled at Sherlock’s curls pleasantly, sending cool shockwaves down Sherlock’s spine, right down to the nerve endings that ended in John’s cock. “God, you’re tight.” 

“No,” said Sherlock, and swallowed. His eyes were closed; he could feel the rumble in John’s chest as his spoke. Listen to his heart pound. 

“Well, tighter than I...kiss me.” 

Sherlock shifted and reached for John’s lips. A slow, sucking sort of kiss, with John running his hands up and down Sherlock’s back, interspersed with smaller kisses, nips on his upper and lower lips both. 

Sherlock tried to control his breathing. Tried to tamper down the need to move, to twist under John, to hold his legs up high and just let John pound into him until he couldn’t think anymore. He could barely think _now_. 

John’s lips moved across his jaw line, down to his neck, opposite the bond bite, and Sherlock went still. 

“Up,” said John again, this time more strangled. 

Sherlock pushed back up at arm’s length, but not so high that John couldn’t have pulled it back down if he wanted. John looked lost beneath him, mouth open and swollen, the muscles in his throat working and contracting. John’s breath was heavy. 

It had been years. Twelve, really. But Sherlock lifted up on his knees, just a little, before settling back down again, and that was enough friction that John’s breath caught in his throat. Sherlock could feel the drag of John’s cock inside him, the way the ridges at the head caught on his skin, the knot pulling and pushing at the ring, which didn’t give. Sherlock’s eyes widened, and he tried it again, just to watch John’s reaction. 

This time, he felt the pleasant tingle turn more insistent, demanding. _Again again again_ , sang every nerve in him, and Sherlock listened. 

“Oh, fuck,” whispered John, and gripped tightly to Sherlock’s hips, lifting and lowering in time with Sherlock’s movements, and soon Sherlock was moving consistently with the rhythm they set together, John’s hips helping as much as they could, rising and falling in tandem with each other. 

_John John John it’s John it’s always John, yes, yes, just like that, oh God, don’t stop, I can’t stop, I can’t hold myself up, I’m going to collapse, no, yes, yes, God, John._

The pressure peaked, a sharp lightning bolt that electrified every nerve in his body, washing him over in a sensation so strong it was cold; Sherlock let out a shout. It felt like everything was streaming down, down down, down into his arse, down into his cock, down into his balls, down down leaving him drained and limp and empty in the best way possible. 

Somewhere, John was shouting out, his fingers were gripping so tightly into Sherlock’s hips that there would be bruises in the morning. Sherlock didn’t care. 

When he came back to himself, he was collapsed on John’s chest, his nose pressed against the hollow at the base of John’s throat. He could feel John’s legs raked up, as if to hold him in place, which was probably wise as Sherlock himself couldn’t feel his legs at all. 

“Mmm.” It was the only sound of which he was capable. He was warm, but it was bearable. His skin didn’t tingle painfully anymore, and the cold air on his damp skin felt pleasant in a way Sherlock didn’t mind. The skin that pressed into John was warm and safe by comparison. 

John’s hands, in his hair and on his back. John’s lips, pressed against his temple, kissing over and over, and pausing when his hands tightened against his skin, pulled his hair just a little. 

A bright frisson inside him, deep where John was still seated. Cold but delicious, like ice water going down into his stomach on a warm day. A bit like his skin had rippled, and when John released his hair with a sigh, Sherlock realized that it was John himself still coming. 

Sherlock held himself still, until John’s hands had begun moving slowly over his skin, and then he released the breath he’d been holding. 

“I know you’re awake,” said John. 

Sherlock closed his eyes. “Rude of me to fall asleep.” 

“And that would stop you why?” 

Sherlock snorted, and shifted on John’s chest to see John’s face just as another spasm hit; John closed his eyes tightly, his face contorted as if in pain, and Sherlock felt another frisson inside of him. He held his breath and let the pleasant sensation carry him through; it made him sleepy, a little bit. He didn’t want to sleep. 

“I think…” began John, and then he shifted Sherlock to the side, his knot popping out with a wet plop. 

Sherlock shuddered, his sensitive skin already missing the contact, but John didn’t move far. He stayed on his side, facing Sherlock, and picked up Sherlock’s hand to hold in his own. 

“You’ve been in heat all day, haven’t you? Why didn’t I notice?” 

“Didn’t expect it,” said Sherlock, and caught John’s wrist, bringing it to his mouth to press a kiss against the cool, deep-smelling skin there. “Either of us. Irene was the one who told me.” 

“ _Irene_?” John thought about that. “Well. She’d know, I suppose.” 

Sherlock didn’t answer; he moved his mouth up John’s arm, toward the crook of his elbow. “And you a doctor.” 

John giggled. “You should have seen Lestrade’s face. Christ, he looked as if someone just told him the moon really was made of cheese.” 

Sherlock snorted softly; John’s skin rose in goosebumps in response. “They’d have known if any of them bothered to _observe_.” 

“Oh, yes, because the bloke who doesn’t have heats and doesn’t smell like an Omega _must_ be an Omega.” 

“Mmm.” Sherlock pressed his nose into the crease of skin between John’s arm and his chest. John’s skin was warm and soft; in comparison, Sherlock felt grubby and sweaty and utterly disgusting. “I’m taking advantage of you.” 

“I don’t mind.” 

“You should.” 

“I expect I’ll have a bout of self-recrimination when it’s all over,” said John. He ran his hand along Sherlock’s side; it tickled pleasantly, and Sherlock’s cock, still half-hard, bobbed softly. When he spoke next, his voice was quiet again, in a way that Sherlock didn’t like. Almost regretful. “Sherlock—” 

Sherlock didn’t want to hear what came after, because anything said in that tone could not possibly be good, no matter the promises made in the heat of the moment. Instead, he reached out and kissed John, and after a moment of hesitation, John settled into the kiss, his hand resting on Sherlock’s hip. 

Sherlock hadn’t played pretend since he was a child. But in bed with John, with the strange urge in his body already swelling again, that was all he wanted: to pretend. John was his Alpha, both of them deeply in love, and the sting he felt in his throat as he kissed John wasn’t repressed tears brought on by hormones, but the sharp pain of a new bond-bite exposed to the air. 

Easy enough. 

* 

The heat lasted three days. It was only while John dozed that Sherlock let his façade slip, and stared at John as if trying to memorize him. 

Then John would wake again, roll over and kiss Sherlock’s neck, press his hand against Sherlock’s sides, and Sherlock would be lost in the fog of pheromones, while John was lost in him. 

Sometimes they’d drink the water from the faucet; sometimes they’d scavenge in the cupboards and make pasta with butter, rice with chicken bouillon, bananas and toast and tinned peaches. Anything that was easy to cook, easy to digest, nothing that would sit on their stomachs heavily. 

Then it was back to the bedroom – when they made it that far. 

The morning of the fourth day, Sherlock woke and found himself looking at John, lying on his side next to him. He didn’t remember falling asleep; he remembered watching John sleep, feeling content and for the first time, not actively anxious and empty. 

The room was dim with early morning light; the sounds of traffic on Baker Street and nearby Park were distant nuisances. John’s soft snores as he continued to sleep. Mrs Hudson was clearly downstairs from the footsteps Sherlock heard echoing up the stairwell, the click-clack on the wooden floors, the soft bangs as she clattered about, making breakfast. 

The smell of eggs and toast, tomatoes and bacon. Sherlock, suddenly ravenous, breathed it in. 

He stopped, halfway through the inhale. The air was still thick with the scent of sex, but utterly devoid of pheromones. 

His heat was over. 

Sherlock struggled to compose his breathing. He should have realized when the urge to mate lessened as the last day went on. But even now, there was still a pleasant sort of fog around his head, his emotions still ran high on the serotonin and endorphins and…he couldn’t even remember what else was running through his bloodstream then. So not entirely back to normal just yet. 

Sherlock ran a quick assessment. Muscles, tired and sore, but otherwise all right. Skin, dry; internal temperature, cool. Heart rate, normal. 

He couldn’t determine his own scent, but John…John still smelled like John, but the spicy-brandy smell that had been so intoxicating wasn’t nearly as strong as it had been previously. 

The only thing that remained was the urge for Sherlock to reach out to John, to nuzzle into his embrace, press his nose against John’s skin, feel John’s arms wrap around him – not for sex, but for comfort. For solace. 

For reassurance, even. 

Sherlock let his hand do the creeping instead, to where John’s hand lay on the sheets. He ran his fingers along John’s, lightly outlining them, the curl of them against the bed. 

And then John snorted, huffed, and shifted on the bed, as he started to wake. 

This was it, then. John would wake and…Sherlock thought he knew what John would do. He would wake, would swallow and attempt a terrible joke out of a need for levity. To claim they were fine, it was fine, everything was all _fine_. There would be a disagreement about who should use the loo first, followed by long showers, and uncomfortable breakfast, before John would look at his watch and express shock/relief that he was late for work. 

Sherlock closed his eyes, let his arm go limp. Regulated his breathing to be slow and even, mouth slightly open, his hair falling across his face. 

Sleep. Easier, for both of them. If he could just give John the space he’d want upon waking – the chance to come to terms with what they’d both experienced together…maybe he wouldn’t run. Maybe he wouldn’t be so anxious to find space somewhere else. 

Cowardly, perhaps. Easier, certainly. 

Sherlock could tell when John woke; John shifted, rolled away, rolled back, let out a sigh and a deep breath. The bed went still. 

And then there was a touch – John’s fingers against his cheek, trailing up to his temple, threading themselves lightly into Sherlock’s hair to push it off his face. Gentle, careful, impossibly steady. Sherlock had to struggle to keep himself from pushing up into John’s hand, to keep his breaths even and steady. Even now, John’s touch seemed to awaken the last of the estrus pheromones, the tail end of the heat blossoming inside Sherlock, in the empty space just below his heart, where eventually a bond would be. 

Might be. Could be. 

A deep sigh from John, his hand cupping Sherlock’s head. Sherlock still breathed quietly, content – or not – to remain in place. 

The minutes dragged and never ended; Sherlock breathed through them, felt the warmth from John’s hand against his hair, and didn’t want either of them to wake. 

“All right,” said John quietly, and for a moment, Sherlock thought John had seen through his charade. But the words were quiet, nearly under John’s breath, and there was something in the tone that Sherlock recognized. It was the same tone he used when Sherlock filled the sink with dissected frogs: resigned, fond, regretful. 

The mattress lurched, and there was a press of lips against Sherlock’s temple as the hand moved away. The bed bounced a little as John left, and then there were rapid-fire footsteps as John left the room, double-pace. 

Sherlock’s heart plummeted. John had barely paused to grab clothing – in fact might _not_ have grabbed clothing, in his frantic run to get away from Sherlock, up to his own… 

Loo? 

The door to the lavatory was a tricky thing. Slam too hard, or too softly, it wouldn’t latch properly. And John in his haste didn’t close it with quite the right force. It bounced back open. Sherlock faced away, but he could still hear the trickling stream into the toilet. 

The stream kept going. And going. And going. It might have been a world record. It ended, after an absurdly ridiculous amount of time, in a deep, relieved sigh. 

Sherlock didn’t open his eyes. He just turned his face into the pillow and let the joy flow out of the grin that he couldn’t wipe from his face. 

The pee lasted as long as John had stayed with Sherlock after waking. Sherlock thought about how long John had ignored the pressure, and tried desperately not to giggle. 

By the time John emerged from the lavatory, Sherlock was up, dressed in his customary pajamas and blue robe, bare feet padding along the floor. 

“Sherlock?” called John, uncertainty in his voice. 

“Lestrade left thirty-seven messages,” said Sherlock, and then his voice went utterly horrified. “Mycroft left _ten_.” 

John laughed. 

“He’s also on his way here.” 

John stopped laughing. 

* 

“Eat,” said John, and put the toast in front of him. 

“No,” said Sherlock, and shook the day-old newspaper. Too much news to catch up on; too many murders had passed them by while in the throes of passion. It’s only now, with both of them showered and dressed and John wearing that ridiculous black-and-white striped shirt that makes him look like a lopsided zebra that Sherlock can think at all. 

“Eat,” repeated John, a little more commanding, a little more forceful…a little more the Alpha. Sherlock looked up from his newspaper to see John glaring, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, hair still damp from his shower. 

“Not hungry,” said Sherlock, and went back to his paper, pleased that he didn’t fall in line. 

“Sherlock, you need nutrients. Neither of us have really eaten anything with any kind of nutritional value in the last three days.” 

“Tea,” decided Sherlock. 

The cup of tea rattled when John set it down. The table shook when he slammed down the bottle of water. 

“And you’ll drink both of them,” John warned. “Or there’ll be hell to pay.” 

Sherlock shook the paper. “Mmm,” he said noncommittally. Being able to defy John was _delightful_. 

John’s sigh would have been audible in Shoreditch. “Sherlock…” 

There was a knock at the door, followed by a cheerful, “Yoo-hoo, are you decent?” 

“Very much so, Mrs Hudson,” John called back, and Mrs Hudson came in, carrying a tray. Eggs, bacon, toast, tomatoes… 

“A proper fry-up,” she explained, as if there was the remote possibility that they couldn’t smell a thing. “I thought you’d be needing your strength.” 

“Yes, thank you,” said Sherlock, trying not to salivate too obviously, and Mrs Hudson started setting plates on the table. 

“Ta, Mrs Hudson. _One_ of us is hungry, anyway,” grumbled John, sitting next to Sherlock, instead of opposite him as he usually did. Sherlock glanced at John’s new position, and hid the smile behind the newspaper. 

“Did you boys have a good time?” 

John nearly spit out the toast, and was spared answering by the doorbell downstairs. 

“Oh, I’ll just get that,” said Mrs Hudson, and left them to it. 

“Christ,” groaned John, and opened his eyes just in time to see Sherlock shove an entire fried egg on toast into his mouth. 

Sherlock stared back at John, and closed his mouth around the food. 

John stared at Sherlock. 

And then they both began to giggle so hard that Sherlock had to cover his mouth lest he spit the food back out, and John had to rest his head on the table. 

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said Mycroft Holmes from the doorway, the irritation radiating out like sunbeams. “Will I ever walk in on the two of you—” 

“God, I hope not,” muttered John, and they both burst into giggles again. 

Mycroft raised his voice, and Sherlock was pleased to see he was a bit pink in the cheeks. “—When you’re _not_ giggling like schoolboys?” 

Sherlock finally managed to swallow the egg. “Oh, _giggling_ , is that what they call it now.” 

“Hmm,” said Mycroft, and peered at Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock jerked back and hid under the newspaper. “Well, Sherlock. You don’t appear much different than you did three days ago.” 

John lifted his head from the table. “Yes, because all Alphas are uncontrollable beasts who will bed and bond with an available Omega the first chance they get, no matter what the Omega might think of the matter.” 

Mycroft turned his rather strained smile on to John. “Well. You would know.” He turned back to Sherlock while John seethed in his seat. “I brought up the mail. You’ve accumulated quite a bit in a few days’ time.” 

“Hmm,” said Sherlock, and resisted the urge to roll his shoulders to cover his unbitten neck. Instead, he speared a tomato, rather grandly and loudly, hoping to distract John, who was still simmering with Alpha rage. John didn’t notice. 

Mycroft started flicking through the envelopes. “Bill, bill, begging for money, philanderer, murder suspect – guilty, of course—” 

“Of course,” agreed Sherlock. 

John rolled his eyes, huffed in exasperation, and went back to breakfast. 

“Bill, advertisement for the local church rummage sale…ah. International express, misdirected a few times. Might want to read this one sooner rather than later. I’ll just set the rest on the mantel, shall I?” 

Mycroft dropped the envelope onto Sherlock’s lap and walked past, carrying the rest. 

“Knives in the drawer,” said John automatically, and then frowned at Sherlock, who stared down at the letter as if it were a spider crawling up his leg. “Sherlock?” 

_Waterlogged, stained on one corner, presumably from the mailbag. Raining when delivered. Misdirected through United States. Paper slightly curved; the letter was thick, and had time to dry. Sloping, handsome handwriting._

_Australian postmark, dated six weeks earlier._

Sherlock tore his eyes away from the envelope. “Mycroft, why are you here? It’s not to check up on me, nor is it to deliver my mail.” 

Mycroft smirked, almost a bit sadly, and set the mail down on the mantel before turning back to them. “The photographs, brother mine. Rather disappointing that you could not retrieve them.” 

“The photographs are perfectly safe,” said Sherlock, and tried his best to forget the envelope burning a hole in his lap. 

* 

It was that afternoon before Sherlock could open the letter. 

Mycroft had gone to make his apologies and the appropriate kowtowing, Mrs Hudson had cleared away the breakfast things, clucking happily about how Sherlock had eaten an entire egg, two pieces of toast, and three tomatoes. John had typed two-fingered on his blog, made them lunch, and then went upstairs to dress for work. 

Sherlock had spent the day reading up on the newspapers, answering the emails and nearly all of the letters he’d received, solved half a dozen ridiculous excuses for crimes, and started a new experiment in the freezer involving eyeballs and fingers – or more specifically, eyeballs and fingernails, but John never much cared for the particulars. 

He was lying out on the couch, hands steepled under his chin, eyes closed, when he heard John jog down the stairs. Work shoes, which undoubtedly meant he’d changed into a shirt and trousers, brushed his hair, and whatever other ablutions he felt necessary. “Late hours tonight, so I’ll be home near nine,” he said, and rested his hand on Sherlock’s bare foot, propped up on the armrest. 

John’s hand was warm, blissfully so, and Sherlock’s eyes popped open. John stood at the end of the couch, smiling – just as expected, blue shirt and brown trousers, hair neatly combed to the side. 

“Mmm,” said Sherlock, and closed his eyes again. 

“Don’t tell me too many important things while I’m gone this time, all right?” said John cheerfully, and walked to the side of the couch. Sherlock didn’t even have time to tense; John leaned down to rest his hand next to Sherlock’s shoulder, and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s lips. Chaste, but no less loving for that. “ _Eat_ something, love.” 

Sherlock opened his eyes. “I…what?” 

John grinned at him. “You heard me.” 

And left, his quick footsteps echoing in the stairwell as he jogged down the stairs. 

John didn’t jog, except when he was happy. 

Sherlock waited until he’d heard the door open and close, and then counted out to twenty, just to make sure. Only then did he pull the envelope out from under the cushion where his head lay, and he ripped it open to pull out the letter inside. 

_Sherlock,_

_I’m coming back to England on 12 September. I’ll be in London for a day, but then I need to drive up to York for two weeks. Return on the 29th._

_I don’t know what else to say. The last letter I received from you was a decade ago, but I know you’re alive, because I’ve read your website, and it’s exactly like how I remember you. Cold and funny and aloof and desperate to make yourself accessible. You’d hate that analysis, I know. Complain that I had you all wrong and you’d give a twelve-point argument for why that was. God, if PowerPoint had been around when we were at school….better that it wasn’t, I suppose._

_I don’t know what to write here. I don’t know why I haven’t stopped writing this letter, I’ve said everything I needed to say. I don’t know why I _did_ stop writing ten years ago, I hadn’t said anything worth saying yet._

_My parents are dead. That’s why I’m coming home. Don’t worry – well, you won’t worry, I know that – I’ve seen them quite a lot over the years. They love traveling, came out to see me in Melbourne last winter, and in New Zealand, and they spent a whole month in Bangkok. And we Skype all the time._

_Past tense. There was a car crash. You don’t care._

_Sorry._

_My ticket to fly back to Melbourne is on 3 October. I don’t know why I planned it that way, giving me four days in London. Just…seemed the thing to do. I can move that date, if you want. Up or down. I know London’s your home, I know you don’t much want to leave it. I’ve got rooms booked at The Churchill. Not too far from where you are, I know, but it’s a nice walk, and you know I always liked walking. And…_

_You always said I was an optimist. So here. I can’t regret leaving you, because that’s what we both wanted and needed. We would have been wrong together then. But…I’d like the chance to know if we’d be right for each other now. I don’t know if you’d like that or not, but I’d like the chance to try._

_If you’d rather not, please do me the favor of letting me know, and I’ll stay as far away from you as I can to avoid any complications. Anything you want, Sherlock. I’ll do anything you need. I don’t want to put you out or make you uncomfortable or force you to face things you’d rather let lie. Just tell me, and I’ll stay away, change my flights to go through Edinburgh, anything you want. I’ll do what you say._

_But hopefully, I’ll see you soon._

_Victor_

* 

John returned to a dark flat. Sherlock was…asleep? Possibly. He hadn’t slept much during the estrus cycle, John knew that much. Hopefully he’d eaten before falling asleep, or he was likely to wake up in a few hours, starving, and then his sleep cycle would… 

John chuckled to himself. As if Sherlock had anything close to a regular sleep cycle even at the best of times! 

The Chinese take-away bag dug painfully into his fingers, and he set it on the kitchen table with a relieved sigh before turning to switch on the light. He gave out a startled shout when the light fell on Sherlock, still stretched out on the couch. 

“Good God, Sherlock,” said John, his breath heaving in his chest. 

“Chinese,” said Sherlock to the ceiling. “Beef with mushroom and peppers.” 

“Yes, of course. Did you eat?” 

“No.” 

John shook his head and started to unpack the food. “Well, come on, then. It’s freezing out there, if you don’t shake a leg you’ll be eating beef and mushroom ice lolly.” 

“Disgusting, John.” 

“No more so than what you left in the freezer earlier. Don’t think I didn’t see you doing it, either.” 

John went to collect the plates; Sherlock hadn’t moved when he returned. John frowned, and went to stand over Sherlock. “Hey. Have you been there all afternoon?” 

Sherlock didn’t answer. 

“Sherlock?” 

It was hard to tell in the dim room, and John was blocking the light from the kitchen, but Sherlock shifted on the couch. A rustle of paper being folded, stuffed back into an envelope. John waited. 

“You hate beef with mushrooms.” 

John shrugged. “It’s not exactly for me.” 

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath, before swinging his legs off the couch, and moving up to sit. He opened his mouth as if to say something, and then closed it with a snap as he frowned. 

“You…you bought fried scallops.” 

John didn’t say anything; he just looked sheepish. 

“I hate fried scallops.” 

“Yeah, well,” said John, and then shrugged. “It’s not exactly for you.” 

He was nearly knocked over by the force of Sherlock wrapping his arms around his waist. Sherlock pressed his face into John’s stomach, and breathed deeply. John, bewildered, rested his hand on Sherlock’s curls, still erratic from that morning’s shower, and stared down at the man. 

“Sherlock?” 

“Don’t ever leave,” mumbled Sherlock into John’s shirt. “Just buy yourself fried scallops.” 

“O-kay,” said John, and he ran his hand through Sherlock’s hair. “Noted.” 

He wanted to say something more – to ask what brought on the display of affection – what had been in the letter – where all of this was _coming_ from…but it was _Sherlock_. Who knew? 

“Hey,” said John. “Come on. Let’s eat, okay?” 

Sherlock let go of him, so abruptly that he might never have been holding John to begin with. “The sheets on the bed still need changing. Mrs Hudson refused.” 

“And you couldn’t?” asked John, watching as Sherlock crossed to the kitchen table. 

“ _John_. Of course not.” 

“Bloody useless Omega,” said John affectionately, and handed him the beef and mushrooms.


End file.
